


Losing Your Memory- Destiel

by Merc_with_a_mouth



Category: SPN, Supernatural, destiel - Fandom
Genre: Alzheimer's Disease, M/M, Memory Loss, Self-Harm, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Suicide Attempt, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-12
Updated: 2017-03-19
Packaged: 2018-10-03 05:38:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10237052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merc_with_a_mouth/pseuds/Merc_with_a_mouth
Summary: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VE2EajJbNuo“It's my time, Cas."Following Dean's progression through Alzheimer's.





	1. Prologue

"Alzheimer's disease is a degenerative brain disorder that gradually destroys memory and cognitive function. The symptoms are progressive and will develop over the course of a few years. I'm sorry Mister Winchester, there is nothing we can do but wait."  
"How long?"  
"It's hard to say..." Dean sneers. He wants to get angry. He wants to scream and shout but refrains. What good would it do? "Between five and ten years we would assume."  
"Five years and then that's it, light out." He mumbles, biting into his tongue with a grimace as he attempts to keep the curses away. All his life he's been out there fighting the good fight, putting himself in the line of fire and this is what takes him down. He had always thought he'd go down swinging, at the edge of a blade or the barrel of a gun. Oh how the twisted irony of life catches you in a way you'd least expect. There has never been any denying Humanity is a cruel mistress.  
"Mister Winchester?" Dean's gaze is lifted from where it once resided in his lap and up to the doctor's face. He isn't the enemy in all this, Dean has to remind himself. This isn't another hunt. He can't salt and burn and cure it all. This is Dean's brain fighting a losing battle in his mind, a battle over which he has no control. There are no exorcisms he can perform and no blades which can cut through flesh and end it all. Life- real life- rarely works out that way. He never had been fond of real life.

Tiredness swaddles him like a blanket but weakness is not something he is willing to show. With shaking hands he rubs his eyes, allowing himself a moment to breath concealed behind his palms before returning the impassive, detached expression to his face. He has questions.  
"What's going to happen to me?"  
"At first you'll feel confused and disorientated but over time this confusion will progress into sudden personality changes. You may experience bursts of uncontrollable anger and suspicion. As time continues you may begin to have hallucinations and whilst none of these effects are particularly debilitating they can cause major disturbances in your everyday life. What comes next is the hard part.” A soft smile is thrown to Dean but it does little to numb the rampage in his mind. “You will begin to experience memory loss and problems with your speech, which will inevitably lead to you being unable to talk from then on. Finally your cognitive function will only be strong enough to maintain your necessary internal organs for a short while and then..."  
"I'll die."  
"Yes." The doctor sighs sadly. This is just another patient on a growing list he'll have to watch die and there is nothing he can do. "I'm going to schedule regular check ups and meetings to ease you through but until then I'm sorry Mr Winchester, there's nothing we can do."  
"Thank you doctor." Dean stands, taking the doctor's hand in his own and shaking it briefly before turning to leave the room. The door shuts behind and he rests his forehead on the wooden surface for just a minute. He deserves that much. 'Calm yourself Dean, just hold it together until you're alone.' He turns off down the corridor. The receptionist shoots him a sympathetic gaze which Dean passes off as pity. His internal struggle is momentarily surpassed by a wave of anger. He doesn't need their pity. How does she even know enough to pity him? Dean's irrationality is already and beginning to take over- or at least that is how it feels.

He nods at the receptionist with a gritted smile and continues through the double doors.

He can see his impala waiting for him in the far corner of the lot. Chevy '67, a car so good it'll outlive the famous Dean Winchester, he chuckles half heartedly. There is no real comedic value in any of the thoughts but it manages to cheer him up just enough. What kind of Winchester would he be if he lost his sense of humour in the face of death? Death is little more than a familiar face after all. Fear has never held him back before; why should it now? He just has to keep going until he cannot keep going any more.  
"Oh baby," Dean sighs, stroking the bonnet with heavy affection. "I'm so sorry. It's been a long night." He leans back onto the car for a few seconds. He needs to clear his head before he drives and before he faces Cas and Sam. His keys feel weighty in his pocket as if urging him to get a move on, to not dwell. He pulls out the familiar set of keys and a breath hitches in his throat. He doesn't know how many more days he has left to drive his car; he doesn't know how many more hunts he'll be around to go on but, worst of all, he doesn't know how much longer he'll be around to watch Sammy grow and Cas, well, just be Cas. It's funny how much of an impact those two have had on his life. A man so broken and bitter but with ties so pure and worthy. Without the both of them he'd be long dead, but I guess that doesn't matter now. Life's insignificant. You die and you leave nothing behind.

But maybe that's okay.

Dean's been through a lot. (He's been to hell and back, both literally and metaphorically). He knows heaven is real and his pretty certain there is a room marked 'Dean Winchester' waiting just for him in the corridor of namesakes. It's only a matter of time.  
The handle of the impala feels hot in his hand, burning itself into his memory as he slowly opens the door. The familiar creak of the hinges is an immediate comfort to Dean and allows him to momentarily forget him misery. His illness is blissfully buried for just the short drive back to the bunker.

His fingers glaze over the cassette player. He rummages through his tapes for only a few moments before coming across a specific album he knows will make him feel a little better, even if just for a short while- Coda by Led Zeppelin. An album he has loved his entire life to break through the news of the end of his life.

The soft purr of the engine settles Dean's thoughts even further. It's just him and his ride. Taking his car out of neutral, he sets off down the road. Music washes through Dean like a tidal wave but doesn't dissuade the doctor's voice playing over and over again in his mind.  
"I'm sorry Mister Winchester there is nothing we can do but wait." He can't forget this. It's going to be there, niggling away in the back of his mind, until the end. It's the devil on his shoulder. Lucifer's top side once more but this time Dean can't win.  
"Good morning, Vietnam!" Dean jumps in his seat, heart pounding as he reminds himself to pay attention to the road. A shaking hand courses through his mop of brown hair, now doused in a thin layer of sweat. He's letting this get to him. He never thought he'd fear something like this but now faced with reality head on, he is losing a 'to death do him part' battle. Escaping death countless times is catching up with him. "You're my little bitch now." The voice isn't Satan, this much Dean knows for sure, but there is a demon lurking inside of him- a demon which goes by the name of Alzheimer's and is perhaps his most dangerous foe yet.

  
Dean pulls up by the side of the road, cutting off the engine. The entrance to the bunker lies a mere five feet ahead of him. He just needs to act normal. He needs to pretend that nothing is wrong. Sammy can't know and Cas can't either- not yet.

He takes to the steps, closing his eyes briefly as he descends. Unlocking the gate to the bunker, he walks in.

His footsteps are silent on the tiled floor. No one would hear him coming. He follows the corridor through to the room he made his own and takes a quick look over the double bed which he claims 'remembers' him- it won't remember him when he's dead. This the first real bedroom he's ever had. This is the first real thing he's ever had but I guess good things don't last long in this line of work.

He shuts the door behind him and falls face first into his bed. After the day he's had he needs as much rest as he can get. He needs time to process his thoughts.

His eyes close but the momentary piece doesn't last long. Less than a minute or so later Sam burst into his room with Castiel hot on his tail.  
"Where were you, Dean?" The question is barbed with a vicious glare. Dean snuck off hours ago without so much as a simple goodbye, they have every right to be suspicious.  
"Nowhere." He sighs rolling over so he can face them.  
"You've been gone for hours." Sam growls sucking his teeth in in frustration. Cas is silent. His eyes are fixed upon Dean, head tilted to the side slightly in thought. He has a look in his eyes that Dean knows cannot be good- concern maybe- but his face remains expressionless. "DEAN?!" Sam raises his voice. Dean's eyes focus back onto his brother.  
"I went out Sammy."  
"Where?"  
"What does it matter, I'm back now." Sleep. That's all he wants right about now.  
"You're hiding things, keeping secrets Dean. We've been down this road some many times before and it always ends up bad." He can't help but scoff. He knows. Sure as hell he fucking knows.  
"It's nothing." Dean dismisses, staring his brother down and eventually Sam gives in, leaving the room with an annoyed huff.   
"Dean?" Cas's gruff voice pierces through Dean's veil of silence.  
"What's the word, Cas?" Dean sighs, rubbing a hand over his temple as if try to wipe away the headache beginning to cloud his mind.  
"It's the shortened version of my name." Castiel squints at Dean, a look of confusion covering his face.  
"Yes it is." Dean mumbles resting his face in his hands and looking up at the angel. Cas shakes his head slightly, as if clearing away the confusion in his mind.  
"You're not well." The angel mumbles, a hint of a question in his voice. He stares down at Dean through his eyelashes, keeping his gaze trained upon the man as his eyebrows knot together with an emotion Dean cannot comprehend.  
"I'm fine." The hairs on his next stand on end. He exhales. He's tired and, what with the weight on his shoulders, eager to sleep.  
"I can see it inside of you. There's something wrong."  
"Nothing's wrong. I'm just tired."  
"Dean-"  
"Cas, I'm fine. Just let me sleep." Cas opens his mouth to say something but can't seem to find the right words. He shakes his head, fazed and confused by what has just happened, turning to stumble out of the room. His stride halts mid-step in the doorway, looking out into the corridor.  
"This isn't over, Dean." He leaves without another word. He leaves and Dean is left to brood in silence. What does that mean? Does Cas know?

The headache retorts with full driving leaving Dean with no option but to lie his head back onto the pillows, allowing himself to sink into the mattress beneath him. He remains on top of the duvet, not bothering to drape it over himself.

The stresses of today are getting to him and are leaving him weak. He is exhausted but he doesn't see a peaceful sleep coming in the near future. He craves sleep but his conscious is fighting the urge to let his eyelids seal shut. The news of his illness remains fresh in his mind and he has to constantly remind himself that this is real, this is not a dream.

He imagines over and over his descent. He imagines insanity taking it's hold. He imagines losing himself and it scares every fibre of his being. After years and years of being a hunter, after years of experiencing everything that would turn a man's soul sour, he held onto himself but this disease is taking the one good thing in his life away from him- it's taking his mind and with his mind it's taking his memories, the people he loves and his life. He is losing everything to Alzheimer's and there is not one thing he can do.  
Perhaps this is a good thing. Maybe Dean is focusing too much on the negatives and not looking over the horizon. At least now he won't be hunting when he's an old man.

He has always believed life ends bloody or sad for him but now maybe it doesn't have to be either. Maybe now one day he'll just slip away peacefully and he won't have to feel anything.  
He knows it isn't going to be easy. He knows Cas will try to heal him and he knows Sam will put up a fight but this time he doesn't think he wants to be saved. This time he wants his death to be permanent so he can finally be free. Dean can leave this life knowing he worked as hard has he possibly could but the job took its toll in the end. And maybe he's being selfish but after everything he has done surely he has earned the right.  
He leans his head back further into the pillow and lets hit gaze stray up to the ceiling, his mind drifting through the manic thoughts of the hopeless man. He's dying but, as a hunter, he's considered himself 'dying' since day one.

This line of work is dangerous. You can't get too comfortable in life because you never know when it is going to be torn away from you. You could go out one day with the intentions of saving the world and the next you could be taking you final breath. As a hunter there are no guarantees. Dean has come to accept the lack of structure in his life.  
His eyelids begin to feel heavy but the thoughts in his mind carry on regardless of his body's protest. His head drops to the side just slightly as he loses the strength to hold his neck any longer. He falls into sleep and is tormented in the fantasy world of peaceful nightmares.

The next day he wakes up, almost forgetting that anything is wrong. He begins the day as he would any other. He rolls out of the comfort of his bed after a mere four hours sleep, but he has learnt to survive and thrive off such little time in bed.

Rubbing his face with both hands he attempts to wipe away his sleepy daze. He keeps his eyes closed for another few seconds imagining,- no- hoping that when he leaves his room he will not be tormented with endless questions. That's wishful thinking.  
He strips himself of yesterday's clothes and pulls a fresh set on- black t shirt, black shirt, jeans and boots, his battle gear. He smooths his hair down with his hands in front of a mirror and takes it upon himself to quickly brush his teeth.

At the door he allows himself a final deep breath before pulling down on the handle and walking out. He doesn't know what he expected but the lack noise unnerves him. Where's Cas towering over him with his disobedience of the laws of personal space? Where's Sam badgering on about where Dean was last night? There's nothing and somehow it feels wrong.

Sam sits at the head of the grand table closest to the door. He rests his head in one hand whilst mindlessly scrolling with the other. Dean falls into the seat beside Sam, sliding a mug of coffee across the table for his little brother. Sam looks up at Dean, giving a half smile to show his gratitude but doesn't say a word as he turns back to focus on the screen.  
"Talk to me Sammy." Dean begs continuing to look at his little brother.  
"What do you want me to say Dean?" Sam sighs shutting the lid of his laptop and staring down at the table.  
"Something, anything. Get angry if you have to. Just say something." Sam raises his coffee cup to his lips and takes a sip of the scorching liquid with a grimace.  
"You forgot the sugar." Sam chuckles lightly, throwing his brother a slight smile.  
"Where's Cas?" Dean asks laughing lightly at his brother.  
"He left during the night, didn't say a word." Dean taps lightly on the table with one hand. He takes a sip of the coffee residing within his other hand. He lets out a deep breath, a sigh of relief perhaps. He doesn't have to face the relentless questions the angel would inevitably throw at him, well he doesn't have to face them yet.  
"How are you Dean?"  
"I don't know. I just don't know any more." A year in purgatory took it's toll on Dean, almost losing Castiel didn't exactly help either. He's been off since but now he knows why. There is something wrong with him but only he knows that. He doesn't want to burden Sam and Cas until absolutely necessary. He wants to wait until he is beyond repair. He doesn't want hope and he doesn't want to be healed.  
"What do you mean?" Sam asks with concern.  
"I- It doesn't matter Sammy. Probably just the lack of sleep talking." Dean runs a hand through his hair and shuffles awkwardly in his seat trying to distract from the situation. "So, anyway, what's on the rota for today?"  
"A whole slice of nothing." He rubs at his tired eyes with his fingers.  
"How long you been up?" Dean asks his brother, he looks like he hasn't slept in a week.  
"All night. Been looking for a case."  
"You need sleep, little brother."  
"It's fine. I'm used to it." He pushes the hair from his face with one hand, whilst trying to muffle a yawn with the other.  
"You're tired. Go to sleep, I'll hold up the fort." Sam stands clapping a hand on Dean's shoulder as a silent 'thank you' before leaving the main room with his laptop in hand. Dean is submerged in deafening silence once again. Silence, as in a lack of noise, meaning he has nothing to distract the thoughts in his head.

He worries. He worries about what Cas had to say. He knows, Dean's pretty certain of that much. How much he knows is a whole other story. He needs to talk to Cas, sooner rather than later, if for nothing more than to stop these worries and delusions crowding his mind.

He stands up and walks over to the other side of the room, concealing his sight behind eyelids.  
"I pray to Castiel to get his feathery ass down here." He opens his eyes, nothing has happened, no one is here except Dean. "Come on, Cas! Don't be a dick."  
"Hello."  
"What did you mean? 'This isn't over', what isn't over?" No beat of silence is allowed as Dean delves right into it.   
"Our talk." Cas all but states, his eyebrows creasing in confusion as if it were obvious. "There's something you're not telling Sam and I, Dean and I intend to find out what that is."  
"Stop worrying. Look at me, I'm fine. I was just a little out of it yesterday."  
"I can see it,” his head tilts in oh so familiar thought “it's like a stain on your soul." Cas looks up at Dean with squinted eyes, as if trying to see something that isn't really there, and maybe it isn't there but whatever it is Cas can see it. He can see Dean's soul.  
"Cas-" Castiel takes a step towards Dean. His gaze remains focused upon Dean's eyes looking for any hint of fear, hesitation or an indication of what the hell is going on. He finds nothing. He takes another step forward. Dean straightens himself up, whatever it is Cas doesn't know he is about to find out. Dean can't hide it from the angel- it was a long shot anyway.

Castiel presses two light fingers against Dean's temple and closes his eyes. He sees everything.  
Dean withdraws away from Cas' prying fingers but it's too late; he's seen it all.  
"You're dying." It's not a question, so Dean doesn't provide an answer, he just stands fixed in his position. He gives no comfort nor any reassurance. "I can heal you." Cas reaches two fingers towards Dean's temple with the intention of sending grace coursing through his system, but the hunter ducks out of the way. "Dean?"  
"I don't want to be healed. I'm okay with this , I'm okay with dying.” It registers only as confusion, underlined with something neither men could easily label within the angel. “It's my time, Cas." Dean whispers with pain in his eyes and an encouraging smile on his lips.  
"Dean-"  
"No Cas. I don't want you to fix this. I'm ready." Cas grabs Dean by the shoulder of his jacket and pulls him in. His arms wrap around Dean's shoulders. He wants to fix him. Cas considers Dean family- maybe more than that. He was once just his charge but now has become so much more.

Dean's arms wrap tightly around Castiel. He takes a deep breath. Dean knows this isn't the end of this but Castiel has accepted it for now.  
They pull away and Dean throws the angel a comforting smile. "It'll be okay, I promise. It's my time." He squeezes Castiel's arm through his trench coat.  
Dean has accepted his fate and maybe it's about time. He's spent so long running, so long fighting and he's tired. He's tired of trying to avoid the inevitable. He's tired of relying on supernatural forces to bail him out of the inevitable. He just wants to let go.

He wants to be free.


	2. Year One

Dean discarded all thoughts of Alzheimer's from his mind for nearly a month.

It hadn't affected Dean yet but it was always at the back of his mind niggling away at his sanity. He put on a brave face for everyone around him and pretended everything was fine; Cas saw through his disguise.

Cas knew- of course he did. Dean couldn't hide his crumbling interior from the angel, who wanted so desperately fix him, to fix his charge. The righteous man, the one had pledged his allegiance to, was dying and even the thought was too much for Castiel.

 

The letter arrived two, maybe three weeks later. The brown envelope smelt of misery and desperation. He knew immediately.

The paper feels like acid in his hands. It feels threatening. Dean wants nothing more than to vanquish the letter like he would a spirit but he knows that it would solve nothing. This letter is benign. The real threat resides within him.  
He wants nothing more than to have Sam here for encouragement but that thought alone is counterproductive. Dean has known from the off that he would keep this from his little brother as long as he could. These are the last day Dean gets to sees his brother happy, only a monster would take that away.  
His hands tremble as he slips an uneasy finger beneath the seal. He knows that as soon as he reads the letter the diagnosis will take on a physical form he won't ever be able to escape. Everything he has buried will resurface and consume him.  
The minute the envelope is opened it all becomes real. He can feel it, a theoretical deadly energy, seeping into him from the within paper. The first words 'Dear Mister Winchester' send a shiver down his stiffened spine. He can barely read on. He doesn't want to know what is going to happen to him, he knows enough after all. He doesn't want the false hope.

He knows the letter would try to convince him to seek medical attention and psychiatric help but he doesn't want it. There is nothing they can do. There is no cure, thus there is no hope. It's better this way.  
"Dear Mister Winchester,  
After our last medical examination it is believed that you are suffering from early-onset Alzheimer's." The diagnosis isn't a surprise, the affect it has on Dean is. Suddenly the idea of a deity such as God doesn't seem so bad. If the lord still watches over Earth then maybe this is all happening for a reason. Maybe God knows something about the future Dean doesn't, something he wants to to protect the hunter from. "Although there is no known cure, there are steps we can take to ease you through the process and hopefully slow down the effects. Medication can be provided to assist in slowing down or improving certain symptoms but as the condition progresses psychological treatments such as cognitive stimulation will be available to help improve memory, problem solving skills and communication.” Descent is inevitable, inescapable so it seems. Why bother delaying the unavoidable? Why would Dean bother subjecting himself to a longer life of confusion and disorientation? What would that achieve other than pain?

Dean, being the stubborn son of a bitch he is won't accept any form of treatment. He is going to suffer through this hunter style- slowly, painfully and without assistance. “It is necessary you come back for regular scheduled appointments so we can track your progression and monitor your stability. If you or your loved ones have any questions feel free to contact the practice for a consultation but until then, I'm sorry Mr Winchester, there is nothing more we can do.” The world around him feels different from then. Everything feels wrong, misplaced. He is no longer legendary hunter Dean Winchester, instead he is Alzheimer's patient number twenty seven million. He is a statistic and he isn't okay.

One letter has managed to physically and forcibly separate Dean Winchester's soul.  
Cas watches. Cas watches the empty shell of a man he once knew, from the sidelines. He doesn't make his presence known, sensing that this is a private moment Dean needs to experience in solitude.  
“I would give anything not to have you like this.”

Days pass, Dean speaks of the letter to no one. Not to Cas, not to Sam, not to anyone. Cas doesn't inquire. He wouldn't want Dean to know he was there. He watched a man with enough strength to destroy the kingdoms of heaven and hell consecutively, disintegrate and that isn't something the angel could ever forget.

  
Since discovering Dean's illness Cas hasn't been able to face him. From the first moment Castiel walked the Earth alongside the hunter he gained some humanity. He learnt what it was to experience emotions and hand in hand with that came pain.

He learnt to need and he learnt to make sacrifices. But now he has reached an impass. He must sacrifice his need in order to grant the hunter his wish.

  
Everything seems normal within Dean. The illness appears to have not affected him yet but Cas can see it. The stain, it's growing by the day, by the minute. It's a void of emptiness, which is slowly consuming Dean's soul.

To Cas it appears like a black hole absorbing everything good, leaving only pain and sorrow. How long until that is all that is left? How long until that is gone too? How long until Dean is empty? No one knows. It could be a month from now, maybe less. The growth is unnoticeable to the Winchester, but to Castiel it is something he will never be able to unsee.

 

Dean sits at a table in a diner five miles from the bunker. He is alone. Sam is busy following leads for a case they are about to pick up and Cas, well Cas hasn't visited in days. Dean thinks little of it, he's probably just busy, but he can't control the little part of his brain telling him it's because of the Alzheimer's. Cas told Dean long ago that he could sense longing, if that is so why isn't he here now? Dean sure as hell needs his reassurance and a friend right about now.  
“Your coffee, sir.” A hot cup of caffeine is placed in front of the Winchester. He needs something to carry him through the day, especially now he is alone with his thoughts. He couldn't bring himself to order food, just wasn't in the mood- unusual for Dean. He just doesn't feel like himself but isn't willing to look into why.  
“Thanks.” He nods briefly at the waitress before turning back to the newspaper on the table. Normally he would have flirted a little with the woman bringing him food in the short skirt or at least cracked a smile but he just can't bring his lips to cooperate. He is no longer under the control of his former self.  
In that moment he feels so alone. A soft frown creases his lips. Any company would do. Dean would even settle for the likes of Crowley right about now.

The silence is just so deafening.

It's ironic really. He has lived his whole life wishing for a moment of peace so he can rest his weary head but now he has it he wants nothing less.  
“Is ketchup a vegetable?” Dean's head snaps up, startled. Cas sits beside him squinting intently at the glass bottle of ketchup in his hands.  
“Hell yes.” Dean chuckles lightly at his winged friend. He's used to spontaneous drop ins by now.  
“How are you, Dean?” He looks up from the bottle to the hunter.  
“Fine.” Castiel glares at him obviously not believing what he's selling. “I'm great.”  
“No you're not.” Cas sighs. He wishes Dean would just be honest now and then. He wishes Dean didn't feel it necessary to preserve this ridiculous macho exterior all the time, even when he is breaking down inside.  
“I'm fine, Cas. I'm not an empty shell yet.” Dean's attempts to reassure the one who raised him from perdition are futile. In fact they only aid in making him feel more concerned than before.  
“Let me heal you. I can fix this.” The angel tries to lean over once again and rid the human of his demons but Dean moves out of reach.  
“I-I can't Cas. I can't keep relying on supernatural forces to bail me out of death. It's my time and it's okay. I promise it's okay.” Dean bites his lip in anticipation and looks expectantly up at the fallen angel. “I need your word. I need you to promise me that you ever won't heal me.”  
“Dean, I-”  
“Please.” Cas can't say no. He can't deny his charge this wish.  
“Okay.” He knows he won't relent, not until Dean's last breath. He will beg beyond human capabilities for the Winchester's restoration and Dean won't ever say yes.

 

“Where were you, Cas?” The angel tilts his head slightly in confusion as if he doesn't understand. “You-You left, right after I told you about all this. You were gone, for weeks, without a word.” The air in the impala is stale. Dean's mouth feels dry.  
“I went up heaven.” Dean takes his eyes of the road to look at the angel. Cas stares intently out of the window. Outside is bitter pill to swallow right about now. The wind is cold and the rain is heavy.  
“Why?”  
“I went to seek penance and answers. I went because I believed this, all of this, was punishment for my disobedience and lack of faith in God.” He lets out a defeated sigh.

Castiel fell from heaven's grasp, he left nirvana in the dust, and now he is being punished. He caused this suffering with sin.  
“This isn't your fault.” The wheels of the impala turn swiftly beneath them.  
God left. God left the angels to fend for themselves, he left Earth to function on its own. He no longer controls every whim of the world. Dean's illness is not punishment, it is natural and Dean doesn't know which is worse.

 


	3. Year Two

Dean sits on the bed beside his little brother, with a dismantled gun in hand. His trembling fingers ghost over the silver casing of the weapon. He watches his brother assemble his pistol with ease and, in theory, Dean should be able to do the same. Both boys have been hunting their entire lives. Dean learnt to assemble a gun at just nine years old but, as his shaking hands take up the disassembled weapon, his mind goes blank. He tries hopelessly to fix the deliberately broken but his attempts are inevitably futile. The clanging of metal on metal echoes through the bunker giving voice to his failure. This puzzle is too complex for his torn up mind to manipulate. He's losing his grip. Something that used to come so easily to him is just gone now.

Sam completes the task without difficulty. He turns his attention towards his brother expecting the same result but to no such avail.

Dean stares blankly down at the parts as tears crowd in his eyes. He bites his top lip to hold in the uneven breath threatening to escape his lips.

"Dean?" Sam asks with confusion and concern etched into his voice.

"I can't do it, Sammy." He feels like a failure. The only thing he was ever good at in his life is gone just like that.

Sam takes the components away from Dean's quivering hands.

"There's something wrong with you, Dean." He breathes out. It's not a question but more of a statement really. It's as if he is finally allowing himself to see what he believed to be there all along.

Dean doesn't say anything which confirms Sam's suspicions. He doesn't deny it nor does he accept it. The silence is confirmation enough. "What's happening to you?" Dean stands up abruptly and strides out of the room, stopping briefly to drop a folded piece of paper by Sam's bedside.

Thirteen months. It only took thirteen months for Dean Winchester to crack. He shuts the door behind him, isolating himself in the bunker's second adjoining room.

Sam's curiosity bests him. He stands and lets his weight carry him forward towards the table. He takes the paper up in hand and begins scanning through the words.

"Dear Mr Dean Winchester,

After monitoring your progress over the last year it seems the effects of your Alzheimer's are taking hold faster than we would have thought..." Sam doesn't read on. He doesn't need to. He learnt about Alzheimer's back in Stanford. A case study he was working on presented the dilemma of the guilty party having Alzheimer's at the time of committing the offence, Sam had to discuss how this would be resolved in a court of law. It ended in death.

He drops the letter and desperation takes it's grasp on him.

"CAS!" Sam yells into the sky. Angry hitched breaths escape his lips. Illusions of a life without his big brother flash through his mind. Emptiness. His heart aches at the thought. He turns around to a confused looking angel just a few feet ahead of him. "Heal him." Sam demands, pointing a determined finger towards the room his brother sits in. He knows Cas understand. Dean might have fooled him but it would have been near impossible to fool Castiel.

"Sam-"

"HEAL HIM!"

"I've tried." Silence crowds the narrow space. Sam feels as though he is suffocating. "I've tried countless times. Dean Winchester doesn't want to be saved." Why? Why would Dean accept a fate as graceless as this?

"He can't die." Dean has given his consent to a life without Sam. Dean has agreed to die and leave his brother, the last of the Winchesters, alone. Sam doesn't want to live a life without Dean, he's tried that before but ultimately everything came back to the two of them- together. He needs Dean. He needs his big brother. "You have to save him."

"I can't." Sam sees the pain in the angel's eyes. Castiel has known thousands of lives. He has experienced things Sam can't even imagine. He existed before the birth of humanity but nothing has affected him more than the Winchesters, nothing could even come close.

“I can't lose him.” Cas shakes his head defeatedly at Sam's pleas. He can't do anything, despite how much he may want to. He cannot heal Dean without his consent- he gave his word.

“I can't heal him, that is our deal.” Sam's breath hitches. The muscles of his oesophagus constrict as he swallows. He can't look Cas in the eye and so stares down at his feet instead, rubbing his face with one hand and biting back the escape of tears. He can prevent this. A deal with the devil would solve this but no demon would be willing to make a deal with him now. It's a vicious circle and there are only so many ten year contracts a Winchester can escape.

Sam knows there is nothing the angel can do. Everyone he loves dies- it is just a Samuel Winchester fact of life.

His knuckles tap the wooden surface separating him and his brother gently. He knows he must confront this head on.

"Dean?" He exhales. He listens for any sound of movement inside- nothing. He pushes down the handle of the door. The metal is cold to the touch, much like this situation. He didn't intend to be intrusive but the lack of response unnerved him. Dean left the door unlocked. (Perhaps deliberately or maybe he forgot). Sam pushes the door open to reveal a bedroom room much the same as his but with more individual touches. "Dean?" He calls out slightly louder this time.

A soft snore comes from beneath the duvet. Dean is exhausted. He spent the last hour or so worrying about his little brother. He worried about what Sam would say or do and it drained him.

Now isn't the time for a confrontation.

“Goodnight, jerk” he whispers softly from the doorway. He quietly closes the door, ensuring that no sound is made as he pulls it shut. “He's asleep.”

“Sam, I need you to get him to agree to be healed.” Castiel doesn't look up. He hides his face so Sam cannot see how much this hurts him. He cannot bare to watch the righteous man deteriorate.

“I won't ever give up him.”

 

From his bedroom Dean hears every muffled word. He faked sleep so he didn't have to face Sam- not tonight anyway. He can hear their pain but he can't succumb. He can't let himself be healed because Dean Winchester doesn't deserve to be saved.

“Night, bitch”

 

It's four o'clock in the morning and Dean is awake. He couldn't sleep after everything. He can feel it now. He's losing it. He can't remember things that used to come so easily. He misplaces things, he forgets to eat and now he can't even remember how to assemble a pistol. Twenty seven years he's been hunting with pistols and just like that it's all gone.

He clenches his shaking hands around a mug of coffee. Over the last year he has really come to depend on caffeine.

**Four AM**. He's been awake for over twenty four hours now. His eyelids feel heavy but the signals from his brain are screwed up. He can't fall asleep. His head just won't cooperate.

“Dean?” He looks up at the doorway. Sam watches curiously with hooded eyes, his grey top and plaid trousers hanging loosely off his muscular frame. That boy, never without his plaid.

Suddenly everything seems so insignificant.

He is reminded of when they were children. Sammy would often come into to Dean in the middle of the night having woken up from a nightmare. It always went the same.

“ _Dean?” Six-year-old Sam stands by the edge of his big brother's bed. Clenched tightly in his hand is a yellow cotton blanket. His knuckles turn white with the intensity of his grip. Tears stain his rosy cheeks, if you tried hard enough you could map the exact pathway each tear took. His tiny body trembles in fear. “Dean?” He shakes his brother's shoulder gently. He knows Dean would never get mad at him for waking him up._

“ _What is it, Sammy?” A yawn escapes Dean's lips. He hasn't opened his eyes but he knows full well who stands before him. Who could forget that voice?_

“ _I had a nightmare.” Dean lifts the corner of his blanket up for his brother and shuffles over to the right to make room._

_Sam climbs into the space beside him. As soon as his head hits the pillow he feels better. Knowing he has his big brother to watch over him and protect him from evil is a comfort._

“ _Do you want to talk about it?” Dean doesn't even have to ask. Sam nods eagerly._

“ _I dreamt that you left me. I dreamt that you left and you never came back.” Monsters don't scare Sam. He knows how to kill them all. What scares him most is losing his brother. His nightmares aren't what you'd expect from a child his age but he isn't like most children. He's different, special perhaps, and he adores the ground Dean walks upon. Dean Winchester is his world. “Don't leave me, Dean.”_

“ _I'm not going anywhere, Sammy. I promise.” It's not long before Dean can hear small snores escaping his little brother's lips. Knowing his brother is beside him is enough reassurance to rid him of all his fears._

Sam, although significantly larger, hasn't changed. He's still the same snot-nosed kid in Dean's eyes. He'll always see it as his duty to protect him, that much will never change. _“And most important, watch out for Sammy”_ -he can hear John's voice in his head even now.

“What is it, Sammy?” Dean asks with a nostalgic smile on his lips. He loves that kid.

“It's Sam.” Little Samuel Winchester- all grown up. It's not the same now. He doesn't have nightmares about Dean anymore. He doesn't need Dean to comfort him late at night.

“I know, I know.” He chuckles lightly at his little brother. In his words- “Sammy is a chubby twelve-year-old.” He always was so desperate to grow up.

“What are you doing up?” Sam asks holding back a yawn.

“Just thinking.”

“What about?” He sits in the seat beside Dean, frowning at the hunter's train of thought. Before today Dean was this legendary hunter and big brother in Sam's mind, now he us inherently flawed. His disease doesn't alter Sam's opinion of him in any way but it does cause uncertainty and doubt to blossom. They could be out on a hunt, or driving when it happens. All of a sudden Dean could forget where he is, what he is doing or how to drive and that's it, lights out.

“This, all of this.” He signals to the room around him but Sam can sense he means something broader. He frowns a little in confusion. He doesn't see the bigger picture. “What happens to this place when I'm gone? What happens to the world? What happens to you?”

“We carry on,” It hurts to hear his brother talking like this. It makes it difficult to breath but what choice does he have? “But we never forget.” The bunker will never forget the man who called its four walls a home; the world will never forget the hunter who prevented the apocalypse but most importantly Sam will never forget his brother.

“When this is all done, when I'm gone, I want you to leave this life behind. Go live that apple pie life you've been dreaming of since you were a kid.” He is sincere. He can't imagine anything worse than Sam fighting evil without him there to watch his back. “Just don't end up alone.”

“I won't.” He has to accept his brother's last wishes. He could never deny Dean the things he wants the most.

“You know I never imagined going out like this. I never imagined I'd die a normal person's death.” Honestly, he thought his life ended bloody and sad. He never for a second imagined he could die peacefully. The thought never even crossed his mind because he didn't think he deserved it. “There's still time to go out in a band of flames, to die at the hands of a vampire, or a ghost, maybe even a demon.” He knows he won't. He wouldn't want to give them the satisfaction.

“I get the feeling Cas wouldn't allow it.” Sam laughs lightly at the thought. An angel so determined to prevent Dean's descent he'd interrupt the natural order just to save him. He still thinks he can heal him now.

Sam's eyes feel heavy. Another muffled yawn tries desperately to escape the threshold of his lips. He denies the fiend freedom.

“You're tired.”

“I'm good.” He doesn't want to leave Dean alone right now. He senses something isn't right. He is worried what the man will do if left to his own devices.

“No you're not.” He can't fool Dean, he never could. Sam stands to leave but stops in the doorway.

“Are you sure you're alright?”

“I'm fine. Now go to sleep, little brother.”

He turns through the corridors towards the first real bedroom he's ever had.

“Cas?” A shiver courses down his spine as he senses another presence in the room “Watch over him.”

“Always.”


	4. Year Three

**One deep breath. One minuscule step forward. Watch your back and most importantly, watch out for Sammy.**

A hunt- the first hunt they've had in weeks. Both Winchesters are out of practice. Their bodies no longer run on cases. They have to find new, more reliable, sources to sustain themselves. It took a while to adjust but after a couple of weeks, rest and relaxation became the norm.  
Castiel, on the other hand, couldn't afford the time to rest. He was off, busily working away behind the scenes, trying to find something that Dean could grasp onto for sanity.

With each day that passed without a case, Dean fell a little bit further. With nothing to train his brain, his decline sped up.  
A few days ago Cas found it- a case so perfect that not even Samuel Winchester could say no. He had somehow stumbled upon a nest far off near west coast Minnesota. The situation wasn't so dangerous that Dean would be at risk, but simultaneously it wasn't trivial enough to spark no interest. The angel knew he had found the perfect case.  
He pitched his proposal to the Winchesters synchronously and to his shock Dean was eager to say yes. Sam had his doubts, of course he did, but Dean's 'puppy dog eyes' won him over in the end. Cas was confused to say the least. He had wrongly assumed that Dean had become accustomed to the sedentary life and would reject the idea of putting them all back in the line of fire. He was perplexed by Dean's hungry desire to fight.  
They set off that night. An old fashioned roadtrip, just like the good ol' days when everything was much simpler. Just two brothers and their impala taking the world by storm one tank of gas at a time.  
“Have you ever thought about having something more?” The question is abrupt and out of the blue but there is obviously some deep seated meaning behind it. “You don't ever think about something? Not marriage or whatever. But . . . Something? You know, with a hunter? Somebody who understands the life?”  
“I'm sorry, have you met us? We're batting a whopping zero in domestic life.” They'd never really had the chance to settle down into domesticity, to live a normal apple pie life. Dean tried to leave this life behind once, Sam did too- that ended well.

“ _You've got so much buried in there, and you push it down, and you push it down. Do you honestly think that you can go through life like that and not freak out? Just, what, drink half a fifth a night and you're good?”_  
 _“You knew what you signed up for.”_  
 _“Yeah. But I didn't expect Sam to come back. And I'm glad he's okay. I am. But the minute he walked through that door, I knew. It was over. You two have the most unhealthy, tangled-up, crazy thing I've ever seen. And as long as he's in your life, you're never gonna be happy.”_  
 _“Okay, Lis... I'm not gonna lie. Okay, me and Sam, we... we've got issues. No doubt. But you and Ben-”_  
 _“Me and Ben can't be in this with you. I'm sorry.”_

After that she hung up and Dean heard little from her again. It broke his heart and left him despondent for weeks but he knew Lisa had done the right thing. He's a time bomb waiting to explode, taking down everyone around him with his shrapnel. He was not made to be normal. He can't have the typical domestic life. His lifestyle wouldn't allow it (and Sammy knows it) but he wouldn't change a thing. Sam just wants his big brother to be happy. If his situation is fatal, he doesn't want Dean leaving with regrets. “One-night wonders, man. 'We got tonight. Who needs tomorrow'?”  
“Really?”  
“You're exhausted. I can tell. I'm still wired, so I'm gonna pull over, get some gas. You hop in the back, get some Z's.”

_Killing a vampire- it's simple really. The lore lies. A cross won't repel them. Sunlight won't kill them (although it will cause immense pain similar to a sunburn) and neither will a stake to the heart. Vampires do, however, have vulnerabilities. Dead man's blood can be used to temporarily incapacitate a vamp but the affect will eventually wear off. The colt can kill any being (bar five) but the bullets and gun are hard to come by. Said to be the re-animated corpses of human beings, the most universally acknowledged method of killing one is decapitation. Beheading is renowned as the most common and simplest method of executing a vampire. These are all things an avid hunter should know. The consequences of not knowing these simple facts are more often than not dire._

**West coast Minnesota.** They arrive half way through the night with no word from their trench coated angel. Dean can barely keep his eyes open any longer but he wants to wake up in the morning prepared for their case. He pulls up in a motel carpark but doesn't bother checking into a room. He has everything he needs right here.  
“Welcome to the Winchester Motel. We don't have cable, but we do . . . have room service.” Sam starts awake in the back seat. A deep breath escapes his lips as he realises his surroundings and lets out a sigh of relief. Something has him on edge.   
Dean reaches a hand down to the cooler in his footwell and pulls out a beer before handing it to his brother.  
“Hey, Dean, um...” Sam begins but the words come less easily than he expected. “Why are you so determined to leave this life behind?” The worst thing Sam can imagine, the thing that haunts his nightmares, is living this life without his big brother but now it seems that it'll no longer be a terrible dream- he'll have to live that cruel reality.  
“I'm tired, Sammy.” He's tired of burying their friends, he's tired of failing everyone he loves but most of all he's tired of living in constant pain and sadness. “I don't think I can carry on living like this much longer.” It hurts Sam to think that Dean has wasted his life plagued by sadness. Both men have spent the last few weeks of their lives pretending they were normal. The facade can't withstand any longer. They aren't normal. They have never been and will never be normal. “I...” He trails off. He stares blankly, wide eyed, off into the distance as if their conversation had never happened. Sam waits for Dean to continue but nothing happens. The only sound filling the empty air is the bittersweet breath escaping their lips.  
“Dean?” Dean looks over up at Sam with confusion.  
“What?” He doesn't understand why Sam looks so concerned. His mind can't seem to justify his brother's expression.  
What just happened? Sam can't seem to figure it out. They were talking. Everything seemed fine until all of a sudden Dean stopped- almost as if he forgot?  
“Nothing.”

 

The air around them is still. Far off in the distance the clanging of chain against chain can be heard. This is nothing out of the ordinary. Their footsteps are near silent as the descend further into the nest. Any decibel of sound could be the difference between life and death. They keep their breathing to a minimum- as little as they need to survive. Everything else is secondary. The hunt comes first.

The funny thing is both men believe the lack of noise is protecting them but in fact the truth is quite the contrary. The irony, lost of these mere humans.  
Dean's fist remains firmly clenched around a machete, whilst Sam favours an angel blade (primarily used to kill angels, although not at all obvious from the name). They come to a stand still outside a solid steel door. The setting of this hunt you ask? An abandoned factory just off of west coast Oregon. Twenty hours it took to get here but a local hunter plead his case well. The Winchesters couldn't resist a good old fashioned hunt.  
It took Dean a long time to convince his brother to let him keep hunting. Sam was adamant that Dean's mental state would hinder his ability to hunt. The younger Winchester had noticed a few minor gaps in Dean's memory and it was beginning to worry him. He could sense impending doom. _“There's still time to go out in a band of flames, to die at the hands of a vampire, a ghost, a demon.”_  
Behind the door all hell could break loose. Dean pulls on the handle. Sam stands behind him. It's something that happens automatically and without a second thought. Dean remembers it vividly, the day he promised to protect Sam at all cost, the day he vowed never to let Sam enter anywhere even mildly perilous first. If something happens, Dean is in the immediate line of fire and he wouldn't have it any other way.  
 _Twenty one years ago, little Sammy Winchester's first hunt. Despite Dean's protests, Sam is eager to embrace the life. Up until now Dean had managed to protect Sam on the grounds that he still had an imaginary friend but John no longer accepts that as a viable excuse._  
 _“We don't need him. We can do this on our own,” Dean begs John to see sense. Nothing scares him more than his little brother being put in danger._  
 _“Dean-”_  
 _“Please, Dad. He's just a kid.”_  
 _“Samuel Winchester is a hunter and it's about time he started acting like one.” John wouldn't take no for answer. Dean never stopped pleading for his father to see sense. He's already damned one child to an eternity of misery in this life, why bother damning the other too? John refuses to see it that way. He honestly believes this is 'protection'. He believes that by teaching the boys to fight back, he is protecting them from a lifetime of pain, however the truth is much the opposite. There is nothing Dean can do to prevent this any longer._  
 _If Dean can't stop this, he will at least try to avoid true danger for as long as possible. He is determined to find a case that will threaten young Samuel as little as possible._  
 _Dean spends the entirety of the next night scouring through newspaper after newspaper, searching for anything seemingly supernatural and simultaneously only mildly perilous. By the time he finds anything that even remotely fits into that category, morning has broken._  
 _“Find anything?” John stumbles into the motel room from what seems to be another night on the booze. The stench of alcohol clings to his breath for dear life. In an attempt to remove his shoes, John falls head over heels with a loud crash. Sammy starts awake. Dean grits his teeth in order to prevent yet another fight. He hates when his father is like this and he especially hates when Sam has to see it too. Sam deserves better and John can't even be quiet for ten minutes whilst the young Winchester sleeps. Today is Sammy's first hunt and Dean tried to ensure he was well rested to avoid certain human errors caused by lack of sleep but it seems their father had different plans._  
 _“What looks like werewolf attacks up in Fairfax, Indianna.” John leans over Dean's shoulder to glance over the newspaper clippings and lets out a sigh._  
 _“Seems like it.” He was hoping for something more interesting. “Pack up your stuff. Lets go.”_

_They arrive in Indianna after what felt like forever. The whole drive had Dean on edge. He is not ready for this. John booked them into a motel room and set off to scour the perimeters._   
_Dean glances over at the younger Winchester. Sam is awfully quiet today and has barely said a word. It could be nerves._   
_Sam doesn't know what he is getting into. He has romanticised the life of a hunter in his head for years and Dean had never had the heart to tell him the truth. He wanted to be a hero and he believed this life would make him just that. Now's the time to come clean._   
_Dean stands from his chair in the corner and takes a seat opposite Sam on one of the two motel beds._   
_“Sammy?”_   
_“Yeah, Dee?”_   
_“You know this isn't going to be easy and it sure as hell is going to hurt.” He knows he has to put the words as delicately as possible because this is going to be his little brother's reality and nothing can ever prevent that, but he also had to tell the truth no matter how much it sucks. “I've seen things, I've done things you can't even imagine. Everyday hurts. Everyday I see the faces of people who I watched die and the people I have killed for this so called 'greater good'. These are the faces that haunt my dreams._

_There are so many people you'll want to save and so few people you can save. And this life doesn't make you a hero, it just gives you a sense of purpose. You have to be careful though. It's a dangerous world out there. I've lost so much, Sammy, and I'm not prepared to lose you too.” Sam doesn't say anything, nothing he could say could amount to what he does instead. He throws himself at his brother, wrapping his arms tightly around Dean's waist. He doesn't intend to cry (he wanted to be strong) but when the sobs come he can no longer hold them back. He isn't brave nor is he heroic; he is just a scared little boy putting on a mask for his brother._

 

_Dean's heart pounds in his chest as they corner in on the lair. His breaths are sharp and shallow as he advances. Sam walks cautiously beside him, always within reach, that is a promise Dean forced him to make. If he is in any danger Dean can immediately pull him out of the way, even if that means sacrificing himself (it would be worth it)._   
_The door to the lair lies merely two feet ahead. John sets to work on the lock. Dean's places his hands on either one of Sam's shoulders and bends down just a little so their eyes meet._   
_“I'm not going to let anything happen to you, Sammy.” He takes Sam's hand in his own. He wraps Sam's fingers tightly around a silver knife and gives his hand one final squeeze. The lock clicks open behind them._   
_“GO!”_

 

The creak of the hinges causes Dean's teeth to clench and his spine to straighten. The silence is broken. He takes a moment to assess his surroundings. Nothing seems to have heard.  
He steps through the door as quietly as possible, with Sam on his tail. He looks over his shoulder at his brother who nods confirming Dean's assessment of the area. With his machete held directly in front he advances through the eerie hallways.  
The clanging of chain upon chain can be heard far off in the distance but it feels wrong. The absence of vamps up until now is anything but reassuring. Dean can feel it, a chill in the air that sets him on edge. Dean holds the machete closer to his chest. In his other hand he possesses a syringe of dead's man blood ripe and ready for insertion.  
They hit him before either Winchester can process it. The hands grab Dean and launch him down the corridor. His machetes clangs to the floor and out of reach. His vision blurs under the intensity of the impact.  
“SAM!”  
Hands wrap tightly around Sam's throat, pinning him up against the wall. Fists pound him into unwilling submission. He is completely at their mercy. With one forearm the vampire holds up Sam's complete 6'4” frame.  
Dean wills himself back to his feet. Dizziness consumes him. His vision clears just enough for him to see his brother in danger. It all happens before Dean can figure it out. His mind can't seem to make sense of what is happening in front of him. It's as if he just seems to forget his own brother's impending doom.  
The vampire bites down into his own forearm, with a grin of malicious intent spread on his lips. Blood seeps from the wound in his arm but he doesn't seem at all bothered. In some sick way he seems to enjoy it. He lifts his arm up to Sam's mouth and presses it down on his lips. No matter how hard Sam squirms he cannot move. He cannot stop blood seeping down his throat.  
The haze in Dean's mind seems to dissipate and he is brought back into the room. His life seems to flash before his eyes. He caused this. He let this happen. He just watched as that monster infected Sammy.  
“NO!” He screams in typical Winchester fashion. He runs, at full force, towards the vamp with his syringe in hand. He makes aim for its neck but before he can strike the vampire takes off.  
“Bye-bye.” A sick chuckle escapes the monster's lips as he speeds off down the corridor.  
“Dee?” Sam breathes out weakly. Dean falls to his knees beside his brother in defeat.  
“I'm sorry, Sammy. CAS! I'm sorry.” He pleads desperately for forgiveness. This is his fault. He should have listened. He isn't strong enough to hunt any more. “CAS!”  
“Dean.” Cas appears just in front of Dean, with a look of confusion tied into his face.  
“They infected him, Cas. I fucked it all up. I let him get hurt.” Cas reaches down and places two fingers on both Winchester's heads. Dean barely blinks and they are back in the bunker. “We've got to fix him.”  
“Dee?” Sam's skin has turned a deathly pale colour. Dean knows how much pain Sam is in now. He knows the burn in the back of his throat, he knows the unquenchable thirst he feels. He knows the incomparable hunger for blood.  
“I'm gonna fix this. I'm gonna get you better, Sammy.”  
“You need to lock me up, Dean. I can feel it. I'm so thirsty.” Sam's eyes roll back into his head as he lets out shallow pain filled breaths. It's happening so much faster than the last time.

_A cure for vampirism exists, but only if the vampire has not yet drunk human blood and can acquire the blood of the vampire that turned him or her._

 

“I know how we can fix this.” Dean declares with adamant certainty. “You need to take me back to the lair, Cas.” Dean could sense the vampirism within Sam was progressing much quicker than it ever did with him. He knew that if he didn't do something, he wouldn't be able to control Sam for much longer. He had no choice other than to lock Sam up in the bunker's dungeon.  
“Dean, you're not strong enough.”  
“I need to do this, for him.”

 

Dean storms down the halls with one purpose, and one purpose only. He makes no effort to be quiet. Castiel follows cautiously behind him, intent on ensuring no harm comes to his human.

The eeriness of the corridor seems to have little effect on the Winchester any longer. His nightmare has become a reality so he has little to fear.  
“COME FACE ME!” He screams into the shadowed abyss. He's doing this for Sam, little Sammy Winchester, his entire world.  
“Dean.” Cas sighs quietly in an attempt to calm the man down. His charge has become reckless in fear of losing his brother.  
“You wanted a fight, you got it, now COME AND FACE ME!” His face burns crimson in sheer anger and anticipation.  
“You called?” A deep throated laugh comes from behind. Dean's whole body whips around immediately to face his tormentor. “I've heard rumours through the grapevine, you know?” Dean snarls a vaguely animalistic snarl. “Dean Winchester, the man strong enough to take down an entire hell of demons, is broken.”  
“Fuck you.”  
“I just had to see it for myself. I had to bare witness to the fall of Dean Winchester.” The sick smile on his face twists knots into Dean's heavy stomach. “I'll tell you something just between you and I, a secret if you will, the stories sure as hell don't live up to the live show.”  
“Shut up.”  
“I watched as a man, once worth a thousand prophecies, broke.”  
“Shut up.”  
“You're so broken, you ruined little Sammy Winchester too.” He chuckles hysterically. That's it. That's the final straw.  
“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” Dean races forward, his blade aimed directly at this foul beast's jugular. Anger consumes him, fuels him with everything it is and will ever be. Dean is a rage powered machine. The beast manages to narrowly avoid the Winchester's first strike.  
“Lost your aim, pretty boy.” He taunts with a teasing finger. Dean's heart burns white hot. Cas knows there is nothing he could say that would calm the man down. He just has to watch as this fight plays out.  
Dean makes aim to attempt another hit. With the edge of his blade lined up, he advances. His feet are fast. He doesn't want to miss again. He swings his machete towards the vampire with great skill but before he can strike a hand grabs his wrist.  
“Not so strong now, are we?” His eyes connect with the monster's. There is not a single trace of humanity left within him. He is a pure blooded, malevolent being.  
The machete clatters to the ground, as the vamp twists Dean's hand to the left. Pain shoots through his veins, causing an agonised groan to exit his mouth. His breaths become shallow in agony.  
Cas almost can't bare to watch anymore. He may not completely understand the ebb and flow of human emotion but he does care for the Winchesters. Too much heart was always Castiel's problem after all. Seeing Dean in pain causes him pain too. It makes him...sad? No not sad. It's an emotion he doesn't truly understand yet and perhaps never will.

He empathises with the pain of humanity, he has experienced it himself. He knows how much mortality hurts and he hates to see Dean suffering because of it.  
A knee connects with Dean's stomach in the most brutal manner imaginable. Blood pours out of his mouth after the impact. The vampire's grip loosens and Dean's body slumps to the floor- dead weight. Black spots cloud his vision as he searches desperately for anything he can use the kill this son of a bitch. His hands graze over something so sharp his hand bleeds at even the smallest touch. He clenches this miniscule 'weapon' within his palm and out of sight. Blood breaks the skin barrier at contact.  
He dizzily stumbles to his feet.  
“I'm not going to let you win that easily.” His words are little than slurs and probably don't resonate with the desired impact. He blinks his eyes tightly in an attempt to regain even a fraction of his vision. He shakes his head and everything seems to clear up a little, even if only slightly.  
The vamp if stood just a couple a feet away, with a smug grin latched onto his lips. Oh how Dean would love to carve that smile from his face, stroke by painful stroke.  
He moves fast despite his disorientation. He refuses to let the monster win. He refuses to let that dick overpower him and make him look weak. If this is his final hunt he intends to go out in style. His final hurrah! some might say. He is a Winchester and Winchester's are strong. He will not be defeated.  
“FOR SAMMY!” He thrusts the shard straight into the beast's windpipe, causing the vampire to splutter like a fish out of water. The impact causes both beings to fall to the ground. Dean crouches over the breathless creature, biting his lip in satisfaction. He yanks the shard of glass out of the being's oesophagus. Blood sprays in every possible direction. With one foot, Dean pushes down on the gargling creatures neck, forcing as much blood out of his arteries as possible. He pulls out a vial from within his leather jacket. The blood cascades down the vampires skin and into the bottle.  
Dean's hands itch in anticipation. The vial, sure enough, fills to the brim and Dean corks the bottle, tucking it safely away in his pocket.  
“I'm gonna love every. Last. Second of this” Dean smirks. The creatures eyes widen in fear. Dean thrusts the glass back into its throat with as much force as possible. Little bits of glass splinter and submerge themselves into the artery walls. Dean lips pull back exposing his teeth in an almost carnivorous growl.  
He pulls the shard out again, blooded sprays back into his face but he doesn't care. With a powerful hand clenched tightly around the weapon, he stabs the shard in and out repetitively. Each blow hacks away at another layer of flesh exposing the bone beneath. Tendrils of human matter spew out with every ruthless incision. Not even the hard layer of bone could stop him now. He is brutal in his attack, no expense is spared. He carves, hacks and severs everything in sight. He pulls away at the little chunks of human flesh with his hands. The skin peels away as if not even attached. Arteries snap like weak strands of thread in his fists. The bone, the bone poses the most difficult.  
With the sharp edge of the glass he strikes white. No attempt at hacking would help him now. He turns the shard on its and begins to carve deep into the humans skeleton. He can here the cracks ring through his ears, screaming success with every break. To think something so important could be so fragile. Humans are weak but Dean has never felt stronger.

The bone snaps beneath him and he feels invincible. The head is completely severed from the body but still he continues to dissect.

“Dean, you've killed him,” Castiel can sense that Dean is crazed with power and needs to be stopped. He has become manic with this kill. “Stop!” Cas commands but still his human continues to dissect. “Dean, it's enough.” Cas grabs the man's arms and pulls them from the corpse, pinning them behind his back. He snarls viciously at the angel, eager to get back to kill. Adrenaline surges through him. He hates this being. “You've done it. Stop!” Dean continues to struggle against the trench coated mans hold. “We've got to get back to Sam.” All of a sudden he is reminded why he is here, why he did this. His reasons don't change the fact that vampire is scum but Sammy's more important. Sammy deserves his attention.

 

“You got the cure?” Cas holds up a syringe for Dean to see. Sam is too far gone to do this willingly. “On the count of three. Three-” Dean pulls open the doors to the dungeon. Sam hisses from his chains, baring his teeth in a vicious growl. He is so hungry.  
“Sammy, we're gonna fix this. Me and Cas, we're gonna fix you.” Sam doesn't say anything, instead he snarls a throaty snarl. Cas advances outside the field of Sammy's peripheral vision. The Sampire's eyes remain fixed upon his still very human brother. “I just want my little brother back.”  
“I just want my big brother too.” A little bit of humanity seems to reclaim Sam as if it were never gone at all. His eyes glass over with emotion.  
“I can't, Sammy.” Dean begs with tears crowding in his green orbs.  
“Then maybe I don't want to be fixed.”  
“You don't have to turn into this- a sampire. It's not you.”  
“What is the upside of me being alive without you.” It breaks Dean's heart to hear how little his brother values himself. In his eyes they come as a unit and he is worthless without his other half.  
“Sam..” Before Dean can retort the syringe is thrust it to Sam's neck...

Screams echo throughout the bunker for hours on end. Dean's heart breaks. He knows his pain, he has felt his pain. He hates that Sammy has to experience this too. He should have listened.

The screams stop after almost twelve hours. Dean almost can't believe it when it happens. His mind immediately assumes something awful has happened. His feet spur into action before he has completely registered what it going on. He sprints down corridor after corridor towards the dungeons as fast as possible.  
Chains rattle inside the doors. Dean isn't sure whether or not that it a good sign. He throws open the doors in eager anticipation. He needs to be sure his brother is okay.  
“Sammy?” His eyes scan over the room. Sam is sat, still bound by chains, in the far left corner.  
“I'm fine.” Sam sighs tiredly. The bags under his eyes reveal how hard the last few hours have been on him. If it hurt Dean, it sure as hell hurt Sam a lot too. The sampire has gone and has left behind a drained Winchester. “Just tired.”  
“I think you're right.” Dean admits with a sad but relieved smile.  
“About what?” Sam looks up at Dean with confusion knotted into his eyebrows.  
“I'm not all here. I'm not stro -I'm not strong enough.” He has never hated himself more than in this moment. “I think I have to give up hunting- for good this time.”

 


	5. Year Five

“ _Hey Jude...”_

In those last few months, Dean's progression had hit a landslide. His memory was fading- fast. He would forget things that once came so easily and not even bat an eyelid. With everything as it was in those last few months it had been a comfort to think of home.

He imagined he was young again. He imagined how, late at night, his mother would take him in her arms and sing him softly to sleep. He imagined a world in which everything was sound and he was safe.

Just four when his mother died and all hope of a normal life was lost, but the years prior he remembers fondly.

It's surprising really; his hold is the tightest one the things he remembers the least. He holds tightest to normality, despite experience of such a thing lacking so immensely. It reveals a great deal about his character- I'm sure you'll agree- and tells a hell of a lot about where his values lie.

 

“Hey, Dean?”

“Sammy?” The first breath on his lips as Sam gently rouses Dean from the warm embrace of sleep. The fear in Dean's eyes is all but transparent. “What's wrong?”

“You were singing again. 'Hey Jude'.” No reply. The words just don't seem to come to him. “You do it a lot, you know.”

“What?”

“Talk about mom, sing songs mom used to sing... all of it, in your sleep.”

“I do?”

“Every night.” Of course Dean knows. Of all the memories he still recalls, his mother's are the safest. He can remember growing up on the road with his father, he can remember meeting Cas, he can remember every time he almost lost Sammy but he sure as hell can't remember why.

He has to block all of that out. He'd lose his mind if he didn't. He'd go crazy, searching for answers that are lost- answers chained in the prison of his mind- so he changes the subject.

“Was I a good brother?” The question hits Sam hard. His smile falters on his lips. Is it really this bad?

“Only the best.” He attempts a grin to reaffirm his words but ultimately he looks as though there is a sour taste in his mouth.

“Tell me about us, when were kids.”

“What would you like to know?”

“Everything...”

 

“ _You're not mad?”_

“ _For what?”_

“ _Using a bullet.” Dean's forehead creases in anger and confusion. Surely John would be furious right about now._

“ _Mad? I'm proud of you. You know, Sam and I, we can get pretty obsessed. But you- you watch out for this family. You always have.”_

“ _Thanks.” It's the kind of praise Dean has longed to hear from his dad for so long, but now the words have escaped John's lips they feel wrong._

_The wind suddenly picks up. Lights begin to flicker all around them. They race to the window but are already certain of what they will find._

“ _It found us. It's here.” John's eyes widen. They are in danger._

“ _The demon?”_

“ _Sam, lines of salt in front of every window, every door.” It's standard practice for preventing a demon entering a building. The first thing they always do._

“ _I already did it.” Nothing if not conscientious._

“ _Well, check it, okay?” John frames his commands as suggestions but paranoia has gotten the better of him._

“ _Okay.” Sam races out of the room; timing is everything in this business._

“ _Dean, you got the gun?” This is the money shot, what they've been waiting for all their lives- Azazel's death._

“ _Yeah.”_

“ _Give it to me.” John stretches out a hand. Dean takes the Colt from his jeans but makes no move to hand it to John._

“ _Dad, Sam tried to shoot the demon in Salvation. It disappeared.”_

“ _This is me. I won't miss. Now, the gun, hurry.” Dean hesitates looking down at the gun. “Son, please.” He starts to back away from his father. His body trembles. “Give me the gun. What are you doing, Dean?”_

“ _He'd be furious.” Dean barely whispers._

“ _What?”_

“ _That I wasted a bullet. He wouldn't be proud of me, he'd tear me a new one.” Nobody knows John better than Dean. That at least is certain. When Sam left for Stanford only Dean remained, he saw every side to his father and they all remain with him to this day._

_He lifts the gun, pointing it at John. His hands shake as he cocks it._

“ _You're not my Dad.”_

“ _Dean, it's me.”_

“ _I know my Dad better than anyone. And you ain't him.” His eyebrows furrow causing creases to contort around his eyes. Family has always been the most important thing to him._

_Why must it always be like this?_

“ _What the hell's gotten into you?” A spark ignites in John. A spark that almost convinces Dean it's him, but he knows..._

“ _I could ask you the same thing. Stay back!” All intent is on John. Their eyes locked in a duel, to see who will give up their ploy first._

“ _Dean? What the hell's going on?”_

 

Dean starts awake, his body doused in a layer of sweat.

What was that?

Rugged breaths escape his lips. His head feels as though it is pounding. His hands ball into fists as he tries to distract himself from the pain in his head. But the release offers no numbing to the ache.

He stands up from his bed but sways a little on his feet. His ears ring as the blood rushes to his extremities. All he wants right now is a cup of coffee and a change of clothes.

He heads to his drawers but finds no clean t-shirts or boxers inside. Failing that, he knows he can check at least one of the things on his list off. To the kitchen!

The black liquid scalds the back of his throat as he takes a large gulp. The taste in his mouth is bitter, unpleasant, and not at all how he thought it would be. He couldn't remember if he takes sugar, milk, cream... so he left it raw, bare boned, which (apparently) was a mistake.

His hand trembles as he lifts the mug to his lips to take another unwilling sip, but his grip falters. The mug falls from his hand. The liquid splatters all over his chest, scorching his skin through his now stained white t-shirt, and the mug shatters on the ground. Dean doesn't move. He doesn't make any attempt to remedy the situation. He just stands in the middle of the room burnt, confused, trembling and alone.

 

“Dean?!” He hadn't moved from that position. He could feel the heat radiating off his chest but by now he was bone dry. His eyes glance over at the clock. Two hours had passed. Two hours he had stood there motionless.

“I-I tried to m-make coffee.” Small tears well up in his eyes. He feels useless and in that moment he is a five-year-old once again. The guilt in his eyes shows he has only good intent but feels as though he is being told off. “I'm s-s-sorry.”

“It's okay, Dean. You could have woken me up.” Dean still doesn't move.

Sam walks over to Dean and helps him to step over the glass surrounding him, before sitting him down on a dining chair. The broken mug can wait.

He pulls a first kit out from under the sink. Dean may be his big brother but he has never looked so fragile to Sam.

He helps Dean out of his t-shirt and begins assessing the wounds. His skin has bubbled under the contact, bright red, puss filled blisters are beginning to form atop the fragile skin. Small shards of china are caught in his irritated flesh, exaggerating the wound.

Sam takes a set of long, pointed tweezers from the box and gently begins removing the fragments. A soft sigh escapes his lips. It's only going to get worse from here. Dean's going to keep getting into situations like this. It's unavoidable.

“I just wanted a cup of coffee.”

“I know.”

 

Sam had put Dean to sleep less than half an hour later.

“Cas?” He closes his eyes for a moment and longs for his winged friend to appear.

“Hello, Sam.”

“He's a danger to himself and I don't know what to do any more.”

 

The next day was bad. Worse than Sam had ever seen it.

 

_Ten o'clock._

Sam had gone to wake Dean up later than usual that morning. After last night's incident, they both deserved an extra hour or twos rest.

It was quiet, an eerie silence. The air felt wrong. The lack of noise felt wrong. Sam, after years of hunting, had grown a sixth sense for these kinds of things. He could sense a misplaced chill in the air six miles off.

 

The door to Dean's bedroom hangs open, ever so slightly. Usually Sam is so careful. Every night he checks the door is closed and the sigils surrounding Dean's room remain intact. He isn't taking any chances. Last night must have gotten to him more than he thought.

He pushes the door open gently, cautiously. If Dean is awake inside, Sam intends to ensure he is not startled.

The inside of the room smells stale, a curious stench that the Winchester had not been expecting. He walks in slowly. His eyes graze every corner, every wall, every surface.

The bed sheets lie a mess in the middle of the bed. Clothes are strewn every where and on everything. Papers, books, photos from Dean's draw lie a mess on the floor as if empty in an erratic state. But most worrying to Sam is that Dean is no where to be seen, and the handgun that usually hangs above his head is missing.

 

The wind speeds gently over Baby's bonnet. The soft sounds of classic rock: AC/DC, Metallic, Led zeppelin, play from the stereo, and provide quite the contrast to Sam's current state.

Dean wasn't in the bunker. He wasn't anywhere to be seen. Sam had tried to call for Cas but no response was given. Maybe Cas hadn't heard or maybe he had chose to ignore, either way it didn't matter. Dean is missing and Sam has no leads.

A multitude of thoughts race through his head, falling somewhere on the spectrum of 'it'll be okay' to 'Dean's dead and it's all my fault.' Perhaps he has been kidnapped or maybe Alzheimer's had struck again. Maybe the demons had never truly given up on Sam and Dean, and were torturing him in hell right now; or maybe he had wandered out early this morning and forgot to check both ways when crossing a road. It didn't matter. Sam can't get the image of his brother lying in a pool of his own blood out of his head. He isn't ready to let go yet.

His fingers remain tightly clenched around the wheel, the skin on his knuckles so stretched you can almost see bare bone beneath it. Sweat covers him, a thick, sticky layer of the stuff. He has no control over it. He just can't shake the fear that he might never see Dean again. His head pounds with images, agony, the two separate things blur together as one.

“Cas!” He slams his hands down on the wheel in frustration, almost causing him to swerve off the road. He thought Dean was important to Cas. Surely he could sense Sam's longing and know that something he was wrong. What ever happened to this 'profound bond' Dean and the trench coated angel supposedly shared? If Dean meant anything to him, he'd be here right now. “CAS!”

No one comes. The shotgun seat isn't filled. Cas remains in the shadows.

 

Sam doesn't know why, but he had a hunch. He found an old phone book. Recent in age but virtually antique in appearance. The white cover had greyed over time and even turned yellow where the sun had once hit it. The cover was torn in places and the pages inside were creased, bent, worn and a few were missing. This phone book had definitely seen better days.

The information he needs is right on front of him: twenty sixth page, eighteenth line down.

 

The car park is full and the only space Sam can find is next to a puddle the size of, well, him. He climbs out and the bottoms of his jeans are soaked through almost immediately. The chill hits his bones within seconds but it is nothing compared to the feeling in the air.

It's strong, intense, and Sam knows for certain that he is in the right place.

 

Sam is almost reassured by this. He almost begins to believe that Dean isn't as bad as he had thought. First motel in the phone book, where they always go when separated. And that had lead him to Buckshot Inn, Lebanon, Kansas.

 

“Winchester.” In his state, Dean wouldn't use an alias. He probably doesn't even remember any of their aliases anyway. The reception doesn't even look up at Sam. He searches for the number and returns back to his crossword without so much as a glance.

“Room 239.”

 

Sam knocks gently on the door. '239'. The nine hangs slightly towards the right. The door handle has rusted around the edges. There is no answer. He knocks again but still there is no response. He checks behind him to ensure no one can see him and, with the skills he picked up as a hunter, elegantly picks the lock.

He looks around the room. Dean doesn't appear to be here but it is obvious he is the one staying here.

The bed has yet to be slept in and Dean has brought nothing but a handgun with him.

Before Sam can search any further, a door opens behind him.

Sam can hear the gun cock without even turning around.

“Who the hell are you?” Dean backs up into the corner of the room, keeping his gun remained firmly fixed on the back of his brother's head.

“It's me, Dean. It's your brother.” Sam tries to turn around but...

“Don't move.” The older Winchester snarls, the same way he used to on a hunt.

“Dean, Please!”

“How do you know my name?” The younger turns to face Dean whilst he is distracted, holding his hands up so not as to provoke him.

“It's me, Dee.” His voice is barely a defeated whisper. The look in Dean's eyes say it all. There is no warmth, no recollection, just the cold hard stare, as if Sam is a monster.

“I've never seen you before in my life.” In that moment he wishes Dean has shot him because it would hurt so much less.

“It's Sam...” Sam attempts to move towards Dean, with his arms still held in surrender to reassure him it's okay. Dean's eyes widen in fear. His hands tremble around the barrel of the gun as if he had never taken a shot before, as if he had never killed a man. Sam sees the look. The look of innocence, the look that almost makes him believe Dean isn't capable of causing death.

“STAY BACK!” A shot is fired at the roof, a warning shot. An attempt to remain in power.

“Dean...”

“CAS!” The angel appears in between the two brothers, facing the older.

“What's going on?”

“There's a man. I don't know who he is. He knows my name. I don't know who he is, Cas.” In that moment Dean is weak. Like a child again, in need of protection, and Sam wants to reassure him but he remains fixed with both arms in the air.

Cas turns and immediately he knows everything is wrong. The look on his face says it all. Eyes wide, mouth agape. He may be an angel but he would never have predicted this.

He turns back to the older Winchester and by now he knows Dean is beyond saving.

“Dean. That's Sam. Your brother.”

 “I-I don't remember him.”

 


	6. Year Six

“WHY DOES HE REMEMBER YOU AND NOT ME?!!” He screams to no one in particular and yet everything he says is directed at only one person.

He screams because he's mad. He screams because he doesn't understand. But most of all he screams because he knows it isn't Cas' fault and he misses his brother.

He just doesn't seem to understand the extent of this 'profound bond'.

 

“Sam, I-”

“It's okay, Dean.” This is the first they have spoken since the incident. Cas stood in for the next couple of weeks in the place of Sam after what had happened. The hunter just couldn't bare to walk in a room and not be certain whether he would be a stranger in his own brother's eyes. It hurt too much.

Sam has watched Dean die countless times but this... this may actually be worse. Watching Dean lose himself, watching Dean phase him out- no amount of torture could ever compare.

“I gotta be honest, man, I... I can feel it, slipping out of my head. I mean ganking monsters is one thing. But this...” Sammy. Little brother Sam. How could he forget? Of all the people how could he forget the snot-nosed kid he adores more than life itself. How could he forget one of the people that means most to him in the world?

 

Every day is a challenge. Everyday Sam wakes up not knowing if Dean will know who he is, not knowing if his presence is welcome, not knowing how much today is gonna hurt.

This is not a healthy way to live but he can't abandon his brother.

“Cas?” The angel shakes his head- a now well known sign taken to mean “not today”. Dean is not in the right frame of mind to be around his own brother.

The screams alone could've told him that.

The hysteria makes Sam feel so small. He can hear Dean, he can hear his pain and his panicked screams but there is nothing he can do. There is no way he can help.

 

Cas' arms wrap around Dean from behind, pinning him into immobility. Today was a bad day.

Dean fights against the hold with everything he has. He fights and screams and cries and shakes, with no sense of who he is or what is happening.

“HELP!” His lungs ache with every wail. “HELP ME PLEASE!” He doesn't know where he is and he has no idea who is holding him but this morning Cas had caught a sight he'd never be able to expel from his mind.

Dean hadn't slept last night. When Cas had come to check on him, he hid beneath the covers and pretended until the angel left.

He thought he was in danger.

He couldn't remember who Cas was, or so the angel had thought. Dean's mind was telling him he had been kidnapped. Dean's mind was telling him he would never escape.

Cas caught him this morning, barrel in mouth and finger on the trigger.

“Dean-” an elbow is thrust into his stomach, pain aches at the contact but his grace immediately sets to work on that.

“CAS!” The angel's arms drop. He doesn't understand. Humanity never fails to confuse him but this, this is more than that. It doesn't make congruent sense.

Dean hurtles towards the door now free of restraint. The gun is back in his hands within moments and only then does the angel react. He should have been more cautious. He should have removed the gun.

“I am Castiel, Dean.” It's quiet amongst Dean's panicked breaths but enough to be heard.

“NO! You're not him. I know him. He's not you.” His pants are rapid with each syllable. The fear in his voice is evident but his eyes speak more than words ever could. The two of them now estranged by appearance alone. What a sick joke. He has forgotten Castiel's face but still clings to his character as a constant, a safety net perhaps. That is at least a small consolation.

Castiel reaches forward. If he can just touch Dean all of this will be resolved. He'll see it all and-

“STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!” The gun is turned on Cas but the wielder is trembling. His hands shake as if he has never shot a man before and maybe in his mind he believes he hasn't.

Castiel takes another step forward.

The gun clicks.

Dean never loaded the gun that morning, a mistake no experienced hunter would ever make.

Castiel wrenches the weapon from the former hunter's grip one-handed with ease and with the other places two fingers to Dean's temple dropping him like a dead weight instantly. The gun clatters to the floor but Castiel is swift and catches Dean in his arms, lowering him back towards the bed.

His fingers remain in place relaying only one desparate thought- “It's me. Please don't forget me.”

And when Dean's breath shallows, Cas drapes a duvet over his body and sits beside him like he will eternally do.

 

“My name is Dean Winchester.” This has become a ritual. His head feels like hourglass and time is running out. This helps. “Sam is my brother.” He doesn't want to forget but the memories become harder to grip with each passing day. Somedays he makes it all the way through, others he can barely remember his own name. There is no telling how Dean will be on any given day, it's all just a roll of the dice.

“Cast-” His breath hitches. “Cas is my best friend.”

His appearance startles him as he looks up into the mirror. He has never seen a person so weary. He looks tired, the purple rings around his eyes reveal at least that much, but it's so much more than that.

He looks like one of the men he hoped he'd never be. Old, miserable, alone. If Dean were to see himself walking down the street he'd feel pity for the stranger. And that's what Dean is to himself now- a stranger. He no longer knows who he is or even what he was, as merely a temporary tennant in his own body. He looks at himself and feels nothing but distant- empty. He's wasted his life and feels all the regret and remorse of a man with a clock counting down to zero.

“My name is De- Dean Wi-. S-S...” the words die on his lips. “I can't remember.” He is lost. His lip trembles, eyes wide. “My... My... I don’t know.”

 

Cas found him later that evening. The sight broke whatever humanity he possessed into pieces the second he saw Dean curled against the wall covered in blood and shattered glass. What was once a mirror now lay scattered. What was once whole now sat broken.

“I couldn't remember.” Dean doesn't look up but the whimper is evidence enough that Dean has been crying. The angel sits amongst the glass just in front of him.

The cuts on Dean's fist are deep.

“I could heal you,” 'all of you' goes unsaid but hangs heavy in the air, smothering the men in the intensity of the thought.

“No.” He yearns to say yes (sure as hell he does) but Cas wants him to hear it infintely more.

He would never break their promise.

“De-” The protest is silenced. In the end it is so simple but it took so long. They mould together as one in a kind of broken euphoria but just as soon as they connect the touch is gone.

Dean buries his head into Cas' shoulder, arms around his neck, and sobs. All the pain, all the emptiness, everything comes out because this is where he feels safe- with his angel.

 

Cas can feel Dean's touch hot against his skin even now as Dean sleeps across the room from where he is sat.

His fingers graze lightly over the skin where Dean had been only a few hours ago. The tingle still remains.

He sure as anything is going to relent now- not after that.

“Cas?” It's a small whimper. “Where are you?” He's by the former hunter's bedside in seconds.

“Dean.” Gently, he rouses the man from his nightmare ridden dreams. Dean springs bolt upright on the bed, on alert until he realises where he is. The sweat coating his skin and fear in his eyes, only a Winchester's memory disguised as fiction would warrant such a reaction.

“I watched you die, Cas.” The quiver in his voice is undoubtedly devastating. “You just kept walking into the lake. It was like you couldn't hear me shouting.” All that runs through the angel's mind is an image of a man so desperate for his friend to come home he kept the coat of a deadman within reach for months just to hand it back. He could smell Dean on him for weeks after he returned.

In amongst the fear Dean had grabbed hold of Cas' hand seemingly subconsciously, almost as a sort of comfort blanket.

“I'm alive.” The angel looks down at their intertwined fingers for a moment. Something about it just feels whole. Thousands of years of life and nothing has ever felt quite like this. “You should sleep.” Dean's grip tightens and the same panic returns to his expression. “I'll watch over you.”

“I know.” He's never been more sure of anything.

 

Sometimes life happens without warning.

Dean grabs Castiel by the back of the neck, clenching his fist roughly in hair. He pulls him forward disregarding every rule he ever had about personal space, looking for any hesitation in those few seconds- there is none. He closes the gap.

Dean can almost taste his bitter desperation on the angel's lips. Want burns like a furnace in his chest- eager and tight. He barely even allows himself to breathe, not wanting to miss a single second of what's happening. He's so hungry for this, for the angel- how had it taken him so long to realise? How had it taken this, all of this for him to see sense? God, he is an idiot.

Cas pulls away first, looking gloriously disheveled and tinted with a faint pink hue. His eyes light up the entire room, so enticing, leading a man to drown in their blue depths. Dean was definitely drowning.

“Please...” He knows what's coming next. “You have to let me fix this.” The temptation to say yes after finally finding what he has been missing his whole life is overwhelming. He won't.

“We've got tonight. Who needs tomorrow?” The angel pulls the Winchester, his Winchester, in by the fabric of his shirt closest to his chest, wrapping his arms around him as if he will never let go again. His breath is hot against the other man's skin, sending tingles down his spine.

A hug is just another way to hide your face as you whisper the words that mean the most to you, as you whisper your vulnerabilities.

“I need tomorrow.”

 


	7. Year Seven

After that everything became a little easier. Coaxing Dean, calming Dean, reminding Dean; just a small touch or a quiet whisper in his ear and he'd be fine for a little longer. He trusted Cas and for a brief moment it appeared as though Dean were improving. Sam had noticed it too. Dean would look in the mirror and no longer feel empty. He had something worth holding on to, worth being proud of now- he was no longer alone.

But when Dean fell, he fell fast and he fell hard.

 

**The last good day**

Light floods the room as he opens his eyes, welcoming yet another day into motion. It's an odd concept to process, waking up every day and having to assess how much of you is still here.

Today is a good day.

 

“My name is Dean Winchester.” He declares, with an air of confidence so rare these days, to no one in particular. “Sam is my brother.” Not even a stutter. A smile lights up on his face. “Castiel is my be-” He stalls but not for the same reason that usually plagues him. “Cas is my best friend.” Uncertainty is what he'd name it. Usually he's so focussed on remembering that he doesn't realise how wrong the words taste on his lips.

He is an idiot. In the midst of a life altering disease, which is changing everything about him and this is what he focuses on. It's the little things, he supposes.

“Dean?” A few years ago he would have tried to bury whatever cruel emotion that voice made him feel, now, well- God he loves that voice.

It's the small things about Cas that make him special. The twisted tie, the perpetual look of confusion, the omnipresent trench coat, his thinly veiled concern.

“Mornin', Sunshine.” He says it with utmost sarcasm practically gagging on the words. When did he become such a sap? “Coffee?” Cas walks over to Dean without a word. “Cas?”

“You seem... better?” The famous head tilt highlights the extent of the confusion. Even some as emotionally void as Castiel has tells.

“I'm good, Cas.” The stain seems smaller than it has in weeks, now covering less than seventy five percent but still large and looming nevertheless. He wishes he could see the pure soul he adored not so long ago.

He leaves just as fast as he came. Dean barely blinks and he's gone.

 

“I love him, Sam.” It's pure honesty- a confession. Nothing has ever felt so natural and nothing has ever felt so daunting. There is no way to tell whether he is free or whether he is trapped but he doesn't care either way. This is real. _“T_ _here’s – there’s things, there’s…people, feelings that I-I-I want to experience differently than I have before, or... maybe even for the first time.”_ If only he had known all of that would lead him to this- to the first time. 

He hadn't even known what he'd truly meant at the confessional but when he began talking he couldn't stop himself; all the deep-routed shit he'd buried came out and he left wanting more. He wanted to die feeling satisfied- feeling whole. Maybe this is as whole as it gets. Maybe the warm buzz in his chest is what satisfaction and contentment feels like when experienced by a hunter.

He likes it.

In fact he'd say he crazes it. The way his heart beats with a residual burst of happiness and pure unadulterated devotion is like ecstasy coursing through his blood stream at 90 mph. He's hooked and perhaps that's what love is. It sure as hell feels more like that than anything he's felt before.

If only he weren't so emotionally constipated and could tell the one person that matters most all this.

 

It all happens so quickly.

“My name is Dean Winchester,” it's rare someone is around to witness his morning recall. This morning Cas is there. “S-S-S...” His eyes fall to the sink. He runs a hand through his hair in annoyance, attempting to pull any answer he can in those seconds- he comes us with a whole sack o' nothing.

“Sam.” It's a small prompt. He can see the fear in Dean's eyes, the fear of forgetting everything ever present but currently dramatically prominent.

“Sam is my...” The words trail off.

“Brother.”

“Sam is my brother.” He tests the words in his mouth. They feel distant, far removed, as if not at all associated with him. “C-C-Castiel is my best friend.” They catch each others gaze in the mirror. A small smile tugs at the corner of angel's mouth. Dean turns to face Cas, with a equally small grin unparalleled in infatuation adorned on his face. 

The angel is in front of him before he can even blink. Never one for personal space before, that rule book has been thrown out of the window now. They're only inches apart but even that is too much. Dean grabs the tie hanging backwards and ever so slightly askew around his angel's neck, pulling him in as close as possible and finding his mouth almost instantly.

A year on and this still feels foreign to him. He wonders if, wherever he may be, God is looking down on him disgust. The righteous man defiling an angel- that's one for the gospels.

“Dean.” The angel pulls away, resting a hand against his counterpart's cheek. If eye's are the windows to the soul, Cas' must be electric. There is so much vibrancy, so much truth, so much concern and so much adoration, swimming in their clear blue depths. “Knowing you, it's been the best part of my life.” The words feel heavy encasing Dean's skin. “And the things that we've shared together, they have changed me.” The angel's eye contact doesn't break and Dean can't seem to look away either. Castiel's breath grazes across his skin. “You're my family.” Those words hum in Dean's heart sending waves of euphoria radiating through his body. He's so far gone. “I love you, Dean.” He can't seem to catch a breath. An angel, so many millenia old, loves him, thinks he's the best part of his life. He's in so deep, the water gushing down his throat, and he doesn't give a fuck. He would happily let Cas drown him in whatever hold the angel has over him without even glancing at how weak that makes, how it could backfire on him one day. “Please don't let our time together be spent watching you die.” Shit. Cas' hold has him smothered.

“Cas, I need you to know that, when I do picture myself happy... it's with you.” With a light touch he grabs the angel's hand from his cheek and holds it firmly in his own, as if even the smallest contact gives him the strength to say what needs to be said. “But...” There is always a but. Why is there always a fucking but? “Whether it be in twenty years or tomorrow, you're going to watch me die.” It's a bitter truth that's hard to swallow. In the grand scheme of everything Dean is merely a minute blip, but Cas is an omnipresent being spanning beginning to end- nothing can change that. “I don't want to die,” he doesn't, not when he has finally found everything he's been looking for. “But I can't keep running either.

“Dean-”

“I lo-” The words are ripped from his throat. Panic floods his body. He tries again but all that comes out are raspy breaths. Cas can see something's wrong. There's a hand on his shoulder pulling him down onto the bed almost instantly.

“Dean, breath. Please breath.” How can someone so inexperienced with emotion break his heart with merely the desperation in his voice?

He wants to say something but the words just won't come out. No matter how hard he tries.

He needs to tell him that he loves him but life has other plans.

 

The stain consumes everything. 99.9% of Dean's soul shrouded in a black that will never wash out.

He never gets his voice back. The ultimate truth of the righteous man, the encore to the Winchester gospels- all of it goes unsaid and unwritten.

 

Castiel walks into the room of ceaseless silence. Dean sits on the bed, staring at the wall until the angel makes his presence known. The look in the hunter's eyes says it all. He has no fucking clue.

Dean no longer remembers his angel.

 

“ _Please don't forget me, Dean.”_ He prays everyday to his absent father

 

One day you're phased out and never remembered again.

All the happiness floods from the bunker. No more coy smiles as Castiel catches the older Winchester staring at him; no more quality, brothery time together on the good days.; no more fiery kisses when the doors are shut behind them.

All of it is gone and replaced with sticky misery, impossible to wash off the skin.

You would think Castiel would be more careful- what with the looming stain as a constant reminder- but he forgets. It's easy to pretend that the last few weeks haven't happened and reach out for Dean's comfort. It's easy to touch whenever they are close. It's easy to lean in and not be met in the middle. But it's fucking hard to smile through the rejection, the sharp intakes of breath, the disgust, the pulling away- that hurts like a fucking bitch.

What do you do when the only person you want doesn't want you?

Dean's the only person that can make this better and isn't that just the most disgusting irony you've ever heard?

 

100%- the point of no return. Cas kept their promise beyond Dean's loss of sense of self. He kept and wore it with pride above his heart. He kept it through the agony and now he wishes he hadn't. He wishes he had less pride.

Dean's soul is in tatters, broken beyond repair, and Castiel is bloody helpless.

 

It's not pretty. It's messy and painful. Dean can't talk but then it gets worse. It gets worse and one day Cas walks in and he can't breathe. He walks in and the man is blue.

“DEAN!” He's by the man's side instantly. They were warned about this. Sam and Castiel had sought professional help. They have all the equipment they could ever need to fix this but his fear distracts from that fact. “SAM!” The younger Winchester is there almost before the angel can finish calling his name.

Castiel is pushed out the way. Sam takes control.

The tubes allowing him to breath only aid in making him seem even further removed.

 

Earlier today Castiel had seen the worst of it all. Dean trembling, eyes wide, caked in his own urine, faeces, blood, bile. His body failing him.

He returned to heaven, seeking guidance.

He wishes he fucking hadn't.

“Pretty boy Winchester is dying? I remember how fond you were of him. I remember how you begged when he was in hell. He's no better than the rest of that human scum- vermin. From the minute you laid eyes on him, you were lost.” A group of angels held him back, as their ringleader continued. “You did this to him. You betrayed heaven and Winchester suffers the consequences. I hope it hurts.” A kick is thrown into his ribs and he is dropped, coughing up blood. “Don't worry too much, I'm sure hell has a seat reserved especially for him. He is Crowley's pet after all.” That's the last straw from Castiel. Whatever fucked up mindgame Naomi spun on him will come in useful now.

He returns to the bunker that evening covered in bruises, scabs and the blood of a dozen angels.

 

It isn't long before Dean's liver, kidneys and all surounding organs begin failing him too, quickly poisoning his bloodstream. And it isn't long before his heart follows too.

 

It happens without warning.

 


	8. Epilogue

Dean died on a saturday. He just couldn't seem to catch his breath any longer despite the machine's assistance.

The world had always believed Dean was strong, unbreakable but he was only human in the end.

“Bring him back.” Sam sobs, fists clenched in the angel's trench coat and head buried in his shoulder. Castiel cries too. He allows himself that much and when Sam's grip eventually loosens Cas guides him out of the room and to his bed.

“I wish I could,” he whispers as he closes the door on the last Winchester.

 

Sam left the funeral early. Only he and Cas had attended.

Cas can't seem to walk away. The flames roar in front of him, consuming the body of the man he loves, taking him away forever. He wants to run in after him.

Cas had found something the day Dean died. Something addressed only to him, hidden in the pocket of his leather jacket with a date spanning back a little less than eight years.

 

“ _Cas,_

_I'm a fucking idiot. You know that, you've met me but this, I never thought I was this bad._

_I've never been good at this shit and I know myself well enough to realise I'm too much of a fucking coward to say all of this to your face; so instead- here goes:_

__I have no illusions. Okay, I know the life that I live, I know how that’s gonna end for me. Whatever, I’m okay with that. But I also know that this life gets lonely- sure as hell it fucking sucks sometimes- but when I'm with you, it sucks a little bit less. You being here makes everything easier._ _

_I love you, Cas. I fucking love you. There- I said it._

_My entire life I've been looking at people in relationships and thinking 'I can never have that, it's too dangerous' but now I realise I've been looking to have all of that with the wrong people because, here you are. You've been right in front of me all along and I'm not being selfish dragging you into my life because you're already here and you get it._

_Please don't go anywhere._

_I'm sorry I'm screwed up. I'm sorry I find this so hard. But please don't leave. Just a couple of months and I'll tell you all of this. I promise. I love you and I promise.”_

 

“I'm sorry, Sam.” He steps into the flames, finding the uncharred hand of his love, clenching it tight as he finally thrusts a silver blade into his chest. He's not letting Dean do this alone.

 

If we're going to burn, we'll burn together.


End file.
